Church of the pigeons

Musings from within a stone church

Sitting in a church in St-Denis d’Oléron. A beautiful stone church guarded by a stained-glass dove over the door. I am waiting to hear the angels we heard in Paris but all I hear are pigeons with dusty wings�"unholy, but so fitting here. They drop sand like a blessing over our veiled heads. Things are falling into place.
I must keep visiting churches.
The clock just struck four but if I sit still enough, time ceases to exist. How do I pray? What is a prayer? Crumbling white pillars and a red candle on the altar. I have entered the church of the pigeons.